Those of us who are a product of the Judeo Christian ethic have values sometimes that defy the human nature of man. Accordingly one must continually assess himself in context with his environment. We have been carefully conditioned regarding the stereotyped roles of emotion; expressing anger is manly, crying is unmanly and weak, women have less control over their emotions and compassion is reserved for the fortunate, etc. Yet, once in a while, there occurs an incident that shakes my value system to the very core and forces a painful self evaluation.

This weekend, while pursuing my favorite pastime of volksmarching, I came up behind an elderly couple, I judged them perhaps in their late seventies or older, struggling to push a wheel barrow up a steep hill deep in the woods northeast of Coburg close to the former Iron Curtain. The wood was tall stately pines, devoid of branches until some fifty feet above, the branches opened up to form a canopy like walking down the center of a majestic cathedral. The weather was blustery, snow was falling smothering all sounds, and a chilling wind was penetrating even the warmest of clothing. The ground was frozen, covered over with a layer of ice and snow, making one's footing precarious at best.

In the wheel barrow was a German Shepherd, carefully wrapped in a blanket. It took a while for me to realize that the dog had died and they were taking him to his final resting place. I asked if I could help push the wheel barrow. The man, his voice trembling with pain and anguish, relinquished his position and resumed his vigil alongside his wife. His wife, tears unashamedly coursing down her aged and wrinkled face leaving faint white traces, was sobbing pathetically the entire struggle up the hill, her legs infirm with age seemed ready to fail at any time.

At the top of hill, the view opened out on a lovely valley, marred only by an irregular strip of white punctuated with dark towers at regular intervals. A grave had already been dug, the soil respectfully piled some distance away. The woman collected branches of pine, climbed down into the grave and arranged a bower of green. She then took the blanket and pillow that had been in the wheel barrow and carefully made the final bed. While she was doing this, the man told me, his eyes cloudy with tears and emotions, that their two sons had died in that valley during the kreig and now Fritz had left and joined the sons as well. The three of them, mother, father and Fritz the dog, had climbed that hill every Saturday and Sunday for over fifteen years so they could look East to the horizon and see their life.

The woman, finished with making comfortable the final bed for their dog, climbed from the grave. The man, gently placed the dog on the bed and helped arranged the toys, the leash, his food bowls along its side; the woman gently reached over, lovingly kissed the dog goodbye, tucked him in and covered him with additional branches as if she could protect him from the cold.

There was a crude bench about ten feet from the grave, placed there many years ago. We sat there for a while, each of us grieving in his own way yet each touched by human compassion that had transcended the cultural and language barriers. The woman finally asked me if they could share this moment alone, as the three of them and the sons would be together soon. We embraced each other, and I walked away, tears flowing from my face and dropping silently into the snow as if I shared equally of the loss. I honored their grief and disappeared into the falling snow, soon losing sight of them as they sat there motionless, yet not leaving as I shared their grief and the knowledge that in our mortality we are all god's creatures.

A Follow-Up

A year or so after the artificial seperation of the sovereign nation of Germany had ceased, I returned to the area to see if anything had happened. The local gasthaus informed me that both had died and were buried in the same plot as their sons. Rumor has it that the dog's grave is now empty and thought be also be interred with the rest of family. I hope this is true.